Two
The afternoon at Pemberley had settled into that golden stillness particular to late July, when even the trees seemed unwilling to stir and the river below the terrace glimmered under the indolent sun. The parlour, usually a refuge of ease and quiet conversation, held instead an unmistakable sense of expectancy that none of its occupants could fully explain until the footman appeared at the threshold, bearing a silver tray with the deference reserved for messages of considerable importance.
The footman entered discreetly with a letter on a tray, and Mr. Darcy, who had barely removed his gloves after returning from a long ride, recognised the seal even before the servant spoke. The deep red wax, impressed with a flourish of aristocratic pride, belonged to Rosings Park, and more specifically to its formidable mistress. He took the letter with a measured breath, his expression somewhere between resignation and the restrained irritation of a man who has anticipated a blow long before it falls. He nodded to the footman, who was immediately dismissed.
“Well. We have a new letter from Rosings, my dear. I wonder what is new,” Mr. Darcy said, not very optimistically.
Anne Darcy’s embroidery stilled entirely. Though she maintained outward composure, a faint tightening around her eyes betrayed her apprehension. Her mother’s correspondence seldom produced delight; it carried instead the weight of expectations Anne could neither wholly meet nor comfortably ignore.
Her sister-in-law Georgiana closed her book with deliberate care and folded her hands atop its cover, bracing herself for the tone and demands that would inevitably follow.
Darcy broke the seal. The gesture was simple, true, but when the sender was Lady Catherine, the consequences were never so. He unfolded the thick sheet, its script a flourish of authority, and began to read first in silence. His brows drew together, not dramatically but with the subtle pressure of a man accustomed to interpreting Lady Catherine’s intentions like a diplomat reading between the lines of a treaty. The silence stretched, and with every second, anticipation deepened.
At length, he began aloud, his voice carrying the faintest note of dry incredulity: “I shall read for you. ‘My beloved daughter, my dear son-in-law Mr. Darcy, and Miss Georgiana Darcy are hereby invited to attend an Assembly at Rosings Park on the twelfth of August…’”
He paused, letting the weight of that single word — Assembly — sink into the room. Lady Catherine never used it lightly. An assembly meant planning, display, scrutiny, and above all, audience.
Darcy resumed reading: “‘…for the purpose of renewing family ties, receiving several distinguished families of consequence, and cultivating proper society among those whose conduct merits the honour of my attention.’ Her ladyship only relies on great words.”
He lowered the letter, though he did not yet fold it. The expression upon his face was one Anne had learned to recognise during their first year of marriage: a blend of duty and reluctance, affection for her mingled with irritation toward her mother, and a quiet but determined resolve to shield his household from the excesses of Rosings.
Anne let out a slow breath, the kind one releases only when a long-dreaded summons finally arrives. “I had hoped Mama might postpone any large engagements this year,” she murmured, her voice low, soft, but tinged with an unmistakable weariness. “Yet she rarely postpones anything once an idea has settled in her mind. She must have been planning this since Easter.”
Mr. Darcy gave a small, humourless smile. “Indeed, my dear. And no doubt she has planned not merely the evening itself, but the conduct of every guest she intends to shape or display. One need only glance at her phrasing to see that she already considers our attendance a foregone conclusion.”
Georgiana stood and stepped closer, the letter having unsettled her in ways she did not immediately confess. “Does she declare her reason for holding an assembly? I cannot recall her choosing August for such an event before.” Her voice was steady, yet Darcy discerned the slight tremor beneath the surface — the tremor of a young woman who has known what it is to be pressured, judged, and made a spectacle for the sake of someone else’s ambitions.
Darcy scanned the page again with the practised air of a man searching for what Lady Catherine did not explicitly state, for in her correspondence, what remained unsaid was often more significant than the printed lines.
“Several families of rank will be present, among them Sir Henry Watkin Dashwood, 3rd Baronet, of Kirtlington Park, Oxfordshire and his son George Henry…” He stopped there, lowering the letter once more.
The ladies in the room seemed to hold their breath.
Georgiana understood without further explanation. Her gaze dropped to the carpet, not in shame but in that quiet dread reserved for obligations one can neither refuse nor embrace.
Anne’s hand drifted to Georgiana’s arm with gentle instinct. “Mama intends to present you, probably,” she said softly — an admission rather than a revelation.
Darcy’s jaw tightened, though his voice remained controlled. “She intends more than that. She intends to orchestrate your prospects as though she alone had authority over them. I had hoped she would resist the temptation for at least another year.”
Georgiana raised her head with dignified composure despite her discomfort. “I fear Aunt Catherine sees my age, my fortune, and my—my position as opportunities rather than attributes. I do not mind speaking with Mr. George Dashwood if he is polite. I only—” She hesitated. “I only do not wish to be paraded.”
“And you shall not be,” Darcy replied, the assurance born not from mere affection but from the deep and steady commitment that had defined his guardianship since their parents’ deaths. “No man — titled or otherwise — shall feel entitled to your acceptance merely because my mother-in-law considers him appropriate.”
Anne looked between them, her expression torn between loyalty toward her husband and a daughter’s residual deference toward her mother. “Mama will interpret any reluctance as ingratitude,” she said with quiet sorrow. “We have avoided a visit for several months already. If we decline this summons, she will feel slighted, and she will not suffer it in silence. We had rather go visit her than offer her the chance to pay us a visit. Last time she stayed for three long weeks.”
Darcy’s mouth curved slightly, though not in amusement. “Your mother seldom suffers anything in silence.”
That gentle remark earned the faintest smile from Anne, though it soon faded beneath the weight of the situation. “We should go,” she admitted softly. “Not because we desire it, but because family connection demands it — and because if we do not, Mama will send an entire procession of letters declaring her indignation.”
“Six letters within a fortnight,” Georgiana murmured, attempting levity but failing to conceal the tension in her voice.
Darcy inclined his head. “At least six. Sometimes I wonder if she has not already drafted a few in anticipation.”
The conversation deepened into a silence filled not with indecision but with reluctant acceptance.
They all knew Lady Catherine too well to assume generosity or simple hospitality. Nothing she planned lacked purpose. Nothing she invited was free of design. And though they would much prefer to remain at Pemberley — where calm, affection, and mutual respect governed every hour — propriety, family duty, and the desire to maintain civility compelled them toward Rosings.
Darcy finally folded the letter and set it upon the table beside him with an air of resigned authority. “We shall attend,” he said, “but we shall do so with keen awareness that my mother-in-law has arranged this assembly for reasons she has not yet chosen to divulge. I have no doubt we shall discover them soon enough, whether we wish to or not. I shall see that she receives a written confirmation of our acceptance.”
